The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment
by Zarkovagis9
Summary: After taking his venegence upon Mal'Ganis, Prince Arthas wandered off into the frozen wastelands of Northrend. There, Frostmorne tormented him for seven days before turning him into the Death Knight. Here is that tale...
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Prologue≶_

Icy Northrend howled its demonic cry. It's winds beat a steady chill across the dead wastelands. The snow blew in the storm, unaware of where it was going, apathy guiding it. Northrend does not care for those who dwell on its ice or those who spill blood on its snow. Beautifully indifferent yet painfully so, it silently watches the tragic play that is performed on its frozen stage. The actors wonderfully perform their roles as if they were born in to them. Such a wide range of characters there is.

There was a dwarf. Northrend had never seen a dwarf before on its shores. He was intriguing. Muradin Bronzebeard. A likeable fellow he was. A shame his life was ended too quickly, but Northrend understood that the weak die and the strong survive on its lands. If you die, it meant that you were weak. This land of nature has no room for the weak. He was killed by a piece of cruel ice plunged into his heart. How pathetic was that? Muradin was weak. Arthas was not.

Prince Arthas Menethil was another interesting actor in this play. His story was fascinating. He had come from a far away land. Lordaeron was what they called it. And from what Northrend heard, it was ravaged by a strange plague. A plague that killed the living and turned them into the undead. Interesting, was it not, that the strongest people in their land would be the dead?

Northrend had heard how Prince Arthas had followed a demon (a "dreadlord" Arthas called him) by the name of Mal'Ganis. From what Northrend could tell, Mal'Ganis was the reason that Prince Arthas had come to its desolate lands. Mal'Ganis was the source of this "plague" that had threatened to devour Lordaeron and an influential leader of the so-called "Burning Legion." Northrend was largely indifferent to any threat by this Legion. What would happen would happen.

Prince Arthas was weak; there was no doubt about that. He was a mortal being of flesh and blood. Mal'Ganis, on the other hand, was strong. Filled with his demonic power, he _was_ one of the dead. His blood was fire and his flesh was easily fixed. But Prince Arthas, so admirable, had decided to find the location of the legendary blade, Frostmourne.

Northrend knew the blade well. It was a thorn in its snowy side. The cursed blade was a piece of dead ice piercing its skin and pouring horrifying filth into its soul. Frostmourne was a pestilence and Northrend was glad that it would finally be taken out. It was not as bad as that cursed Lich residing on its crown, but it was still as bad. Northrend was often filled with pain.

It was then that Arthas showed his true colors: victory at any cost, even at the cost of his kind. Strength by any means necessary. Arthas pulled the dreaded sword from the ice, thus gaining ultimate power. Northrend couldn't help but applaud; in this frozen world, one must seize the strength if they are to survive. Arthas will survive. If Mal'Ganis did was an entirely different affair.

Mal'Ganis had a horde of undead creatures at his command. They all fell to the might of Frostmourne. Not Arthas. It is the sword that has the power to crush its foes for its power comes from that scourge at Icecrown. The Lich King, his name was. But for now, Arthas was wielding the cursed blade. Whether or not that made it his is debatable.

The Undead Scourge fell before the Human Alliance. And Northrend howled louder, begging to see more blood. The snow rode on the winds, blowing harder and harder as the battle between the living, the dying, and the dead raged on with fire that frozen Northrend was wholly accustomed to. The strong survived. The weak died.

The wind blew harder as Arthas confronted Mal'Ganis. The prince was small compared to the might of Mal'Ganis, but the victor was clear. Arthas held the dreaded Frostmourne after all. And Mal'Ganis was only a dreadlord. Northrend eagerly watched the play with insane enthusiasm, the wind thrusting the snow across the icy plains.

"So, you've taken up Frostmourne at the expense of your comrade's lives, just as the Dark Lord said you would," Mal'Ganis' voice was like the grinding of bone on stone. "You're stronger than I thought."

"You waste your breath, Mal'Ganis," Arthas' voice was cold fire, as if hell was both frozen and flaming. "I heed only the voice of Frostmourne now."

"You hear the voice of the Dark Lord," Mal'Ganis replied in a matter of fact tone, losing none of its crushing sensation. "He whispers to you through the blade you wield. What does he say, young human? What dose the Dark Lord of the Dead tell you now?"

Mal'Ganis seemed amused. Arthas seemed to consider for a moment the words of the dreadlord. He looked like he was listening. Intently. He grinned. A wicked grin, his blue eyes blazing with the same cold fire.

"He tells me that the time for my vengeance has come," Arthas told him, laughing. Mal'Ganis was taken aback. A dreadlord was actually surprised.

"What? He can't possibly mean to-!" Mal'Ganis never finished his sentence. Arthas lunged forward and, screaming, he swung the mighty sword. Frostmourne cut through the wind as if it was never there. The deadly blade cut through the demons skin, cutting its throat and met the air again. The blood of Mal'Ganis nearly sprayed in the air, drawing the path of the sword onto the snow. The head of Mal'Ganis flew through the air and landed on Northrend with a thud. The headless body collapsed and Northrend cheered its icy cheer.

Arthas looked tired. He panted heavily for a long while. Northrend continued to cheer as Arthas studied the dead body, his breathing slowing down. Northrend howled as Arthas gazed at his prize. Now dead. The prince looked the sword that now hung heavily in his hand. He appeared to loosen his grip on the accursed blade, the fire within the blade slowly dying. Arthas shivered. Northrend's icy chill was only now being felt.

Arthas turned away from the body and began walking. To where he appeared to know not nor did it look like he cared. He just walked, dragging the blasted sword along with him. With Northrend continuing its mighty cheer, Arthas coldly walked away from his people, from his comrades, from the dead, from the living into the frozen wasteland that belonged to Northrend.

Shouts from the survivors of the battle could be heard. Shouts for their prince. Northrend no longer cared what happened to the survivors. They were weak compared to Arthas who was now strong. Northrend no longer cared that Icecrown was now beginning to stir. Arthas was much more interesting. It continued to cheer on the strong prince as he trudged along, eagerly waiting what happened next.

************************************************************************************

Heard that Blizzard was holding a writing contest so I started writing this little ditty. Not sure whether or not I'll submit this story. We'll see what happens.

It's written differently, largely from the point of view from Northrend. I wanted to give the feeling that even the land is urging Arthas to…THE DARK SIDE. DUN DUN DUUUUUN!

Whatever. Again, Mass Effect: Chains of the Past takes priority over this. This story will be shorter than the others only being about 7-9 chapters. Hope you'll like it. ************************************************************************************


	2. Day 1

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Day One≶_

The wind blew across the plains of Northrend, a deafening cheer for the fallen prince. Snow blowing indifferently was not uncommon this far north. The snow was just living out its small life as a nomad, going wherever the wind took it. It did not care that it froze the blood caked on the ground. It did not care that it chilled every soul to the bone. It did not care that it obscured the light from the eyes of hapless fools who wandered. It did not care that it blinded them from what is in front of them.

Eventually, though, the wind must die. Even mighty Northrend must pause for a breath. And when the wind died, the snow fell on the blond head of the Prince, as he sat under the small cover of a boulder.

The prince now half-laid across the ice, arm propped up on a knee, head down, staring at nothing. His armor was beginning to grow small icicles the longer he sat there, but he did not appear to care. He may have believed that he did not deserve any better.

Arthas didn't feel the cold.

Arthas was not alone. No, he was never alone now. Frostmourne stood defiantly before him, having been driven into the ground by the very hand that now hung limp on its owner's knee. The skull's eyes that were etched into the hilt blazed with its demonic blue fire. It didn't burn as brightly as before, but it still burned.

The cheering wind blew through Arthas' hair as he stared down at the ground.

_My, my,_ a voice called inside his head. _Is the mighty Prince of Lordaeron sulking?_

Arthas didn't answer.

_Why do you sulk, mighty prince?_ The voice continued. _You finally completed the very thing that you set out to. You brought vengeance to Mal'Ganis after so long. So, if this should be a joyous occasion, why do you sulk?_

Arthas didn't answer. The voice cackled inside his head.

_Do not tell me you are ashamed of it!_ The voice crowed. _Are you filled with regret? Do you wish you could undo what you've already done? That is why you humans are so foolish! You _wish_ for so many things when you should actively seek them out! You spend so many times hoping for things to change that they never do! But you, good prince! You knew what needed to be done! You had dreams and you made those dreams a reality! You wished to defend your homeland from the Orcish Horde and the Undead Scourge and you did! With your own two hands, you made that dream and that hope a reality!_

Arthas tried to shut out the annoying voice.

_But you did one thing wrong, good prince!_ The voice surmised. _You did these things for the sake of others! You realized this dream for the sake of the weak and those too pitiful to defend them! They gladly had you do all the dirty work! They gladly let you clean up the rabble that threatened them! Such a thankless job to protect those deplorable wretches! But tell me what happened when you tried to do your job at Stratholme?_

Arthas shivered. With rage, possibly.

_Tell me good prince. What did those wretches who happily let you clean up after them do when you did your job? What did they do?_ The voice asked hurriedly.

"…shut up," Arthas muttered.

_Will you not say it? Will you not tell me exactly what those pathetic worms did to you after you did what was necessary? Especially since the evidence was right in front of their eyes,_ The voice pestered on without rest.

"Shut up," Arthas told the voice.

_Are you actually trying to forget what they did? Are you still reeling with shock? Why? Do you not realize what it means? It means that they are weaker than you! You took the initiative when all others hesitated and that proved that you are stronger than them! So why aren't you proud of what you've done? _The voice became slightly louder.

"Shut up," Arthas told him louder.

_You will still not say it?_ The voice continued unabated. _You will not say how you knew that the Scourge was infecting the grain shipments? How you knew that that was how the Undead Plague was spreading throughout all of Lordaeron? And how, when you arrived at Stratholme, you saw the crates already opened and distributed to the people?_

"Shut up!" Arthas growled.

_You realized that you needed to not only quarantine the city, but also contain it,_ The voice seemed to ignore his cries. _And what did containing it mean, good prince? What did it mean! Take pride in your actions, Prince Arthas, for if you live in regret, you will never have absolute power! And that is what you've always wanted! Power! Not to be a good king! Not to be a pawn for those hapless paladins! Not even the lovely Jaina Proudmoore -!_

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Arthas' roar echoed throughout Northrend and silenced it for a brief, stunning moment.

Arthas leapt forward and grabbed the sword angrily. With all the force he could muster, he threw the terrible sword into the distance, where it disappeared behind the veil of white snow. He watched it as it vanished into the white distance. He watched until he could no longer see the gloating eyes on the accursed sword. He watched nothing as the wind blew his hair over his face, his hands loose beside his waist.

Arthas felt something well up within him. It was a realization. It was a certain epiphany that can only be found when you lose something. When you lose something you never thought you could miss. He realized now the chilling truth.

Arthas was now completely alone.

Arthas now felt…the cold chill of Northrend's icy cheer.


	3. Day 2

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Day Two≶_

Northrend was silent this day, allowing the sun to finally warm the ground with what little warmth the land allowed it. And this day, as the glare of the sun reflected off the snow, Arthas still did nothing. The winter air was still cold, though a little warmer due to the heat from the sun, but still, the warming air did not give Arthas the energy needed to do…anything. This day, Arthas did not want to do anything.

Northrend found that quite boring.

Arthas sat against the rock wall, lost in his own thoughts. With the sword gone, all he had now was his own thoughts. Whether they were there to haunt him or to comfort him, he could not know. Though at this point in time, he did not seem to care.

Northrend was barren and empty, devoid of life. No hint of civilization existed anywhere, except for the now destroyed Alliance settlement that he set up when he arrived at this forsaken place. Now, it was abandoned, with its survivors and stragglers now wandering around, trying to find the right place to die.

Arthas thought of meeting up with them, to guide them and lead them from Northrend. But the thought slowly faded as Arthas thoughts wore on, taking whatever course Arthas allowed them to. If he met with the survivors, what would he say to them? What could he say to them? There was nothing he could say to them. There were no apologies he could give to them.

He wished he could, though. He wished he could just say he was sorry. Sorry for bringing them here, sorry for using them as a means to an end, and sorry that he had let them die, alone and away from their loved ones, for his pride. Left to die in a harsh and foreign land. He wished he could walk up to his men and apologize wholeheartedly to them all.

But he wouldn't do that. Because he wasn't sorry.

Arthas had needed his men. Lordaeron was being ravaged by, not only the Orcish Horde, but also by the plague of Undeath. And Mal'Ganis, a dreadlord for the Undead Scourge, was the cause behind it all.

What else was he supposed to do?

Was he just supposed to roll over in the mud and let his kingdom be ravaged by these monsters? Just let his people be slaughtered by these heartless demons?

No.

His name is Arthas Menethil, Knight of the Silver Hand, son of King Terenas Menethil II, and Crown Prince of Lordaeron. It was his solemn duty to protect the people of Lordaeron from tyranny and oppression. Even from themselves, and by any and all necessary means.

So, when Stratholme was infected with the plague, Arthas didn't hesitate to burn it to the ground and purge all who dwelled there.

But why had Uther opposed him? He was the one who taught Arthas all these tenants. Had taught him how to be a paladin and how to rule his future kingdom.

Why did he betray him? Why did Uther ignore what he taught Arthas? Why did Uther wish to save the people of Stratholme? He could see that the people were beyond saving, couldn't he?

The biting wind of Northrend softly blew through Arthas' blond hair, stealing away a little color.

The cold reminded Arthas of only one fact. A fact that Arthas resented and one that he did not wish to think about. But it intruded on his mind nonetheless.

The cold of Northrend reminded Arthas that he was still alone.

So Arthas ignored the cold. He ignored the hunger in his belly. He ignored the frostbite in his limbs. He ignored the pain that was named loss from his mind. The loss of friends, the loss of comrades in arms, the loss of his kingdom, the loss of his pride; all these things meant nothing to him now. He had questions and he wanted them answered.

But who would answer him? Who would dare talk to hapless wretch such as him? Who would want to talk to someone who betrayed his men, his kingdom and his own friends? Was there anybody on Azeroth who would want to talk to him, listen to his questions…and heal his loneliness?

There was one person who would talk to him.

Arthas blinked.

Would that person still wish to talk to him, after everything he had done? Arthas had tossed that person aside for his foolish pride and his duty as a paladin. Would that person still wished to talk to him.

Arthas blinked.

He leaned forward slowly, placing his hands on the ground in front of him.

Using what little strength was left in his legs, he pushed himself up.

The wind blew through Arthas' hair, stealing more color from it as Arthas stood still, gazing at nothing.

Arthas turned and began to trudge through the snow.

It was a long shot, but Arthas needed to try.

He was tired of having so many unanswered questions and this person was the only one who could answer them.

Not Uther.

Not Jaina.

Only the person whose voice came from the demon sword.

Arthas thought for a moment.

Could Ner'zhul still be considered a person? Could the mighty Lich King be classified a person?

Arthas made sure to ask that question when he found Frostmourne, through which, he knew, the Lich King could talk to him. Mal'Ganis had told him himself that this was so.

Arthas didn't care.

He needed someone to talk to.

So Arthas trudged on and began his search of Northrend for the demon sword, Frostmourne.


	4. Day 3

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Day Three≶_

The sun beat down upon the cold world of ice that was Northrend. Sunlight reflected from the snow and shone brightly into Arthas' eyes. He squinted against the intense glow that was magnified by the bright ice on the ground. The wind had died down a long time ago, but the dangers of Northrend were different now. Before, a person could freeze to death from the bitter winds that blew from all directions. Now, a person could lose his sight from the bright snow and extreme sunlight.

Arthas trudged onward through the snow, ice and rocks. It was hard to tell how long he had been walking. He didn't pay much attention to the world around him, so he could not see the passage of time around him. But he knew it had to be little more than a day had passed since he started his search.

Was he so desperate now? Was he so desperate to talk to someone? Would he rather talk to a demon over his own kin? Arthas asked himself these questions multiple times. He had no answers. It was confusing for him and it seemed that now he could not remember the reasons why he sought out that blasted sword. All he knew was that he sought the sword out. Not for power this time, but for…company.

Arthas continued his trek through the blinding snow, hand covering his eyes to shield them partially. He trudged onward until the sun nearly disappeared behind the distant mountains, relieving him of his torment of blinding light. His eyes slowly began to adjust to the growing darkness, but it took time. He didn't see that the land began to slant at a downward angle sharply.

Arthas felt his foot miss the ground and his stomach rise upward. He yelled in surprise as his head fell forward, flipping Arthas forward and crashing into the ground. His feet continued the momentum as Arthas tumbled over his head. He felt his feet slam on something hard and heard something break. Arthas continued to tumble down the sharp hill, crashing into rocks and sliding on the ice.

The ground was beneath him no more for an instant and he fell. Then the ground reappeared and slammed into him hard, knocking the wind out of him.

Arthas lay on the cold ground, coughing and gasping for air. The numbing chill of the ice beneath his cheek did little to disperse the dizziness that caused his vision to swim. He raised his head slowly and groaned against the sharp pain in his head. He felt a cool line trace down his temple and across his cheek. Arthas looked down and saw a small pool of red form beneath his chin. He must have cracked his head when he fell.

Arthas raked his gauntleted hand through his hair. When he pulled his hand back, there was a small patch of blood on his palm. So the wound wasn't deep. He sighed.

A deep growl came from behind him.

If there was dizziness in Arthas still, it was gone as Arthas' warrior instinct kicked in. His eyes were filled with a small fire as he turned his head around slowly. When he looked behind him, his eyes were barely surprised as to what they saw. This was the untamed land of Northrend, after all. Surprises were normal and expected here.

Arthas saw large, dirty, yellow teeth grinning back at him. A rank and putrid smell emanated from the mouth as a dirty, red tongue lolled close to the ground, saliva dripping slowly. A black nose breathed quickly, shooting steam as the hot breath touched the cold air. A pair of bloodshot, yellow eyes stared wildly at its prey.

Arthas had stumbled onto the lair of a starving 880-pound white bear without a weapon of any kind.

"Damn," Arthas breathed sharply.

The bear growled as it examined its quarry. Arthas quickly looked to his leg and saw that he had snapped his ankle when it slammed into the rock. A small piece of bone stuck out and blood was flowing from the wound, forming a small puddle.

The bear sniffed loudly.

The blood was intoxicating.

The bear growled and prepared to leap. Arthas quickly tried to crawl away and give himself some distance, but the pain in his ankle stopped him. He turned quickly to face the bear and was met with a barrage of yellow teeth. Arthas grunted as the full weight of the enraged bear slammed into his weak body.

The hot breath fell upon Arthas as the slimy teeth snapped at him. Mustering as much strength as he could, Arthas used his arms to push the behemoth back at the neck, holding the deadly jaws at bay. The massive bear did not relent as it tried to bite at its food.

Something snapped in Arthas. He used to lead thousands to battle. He was the son of the King and a member of the holy order of paladins. He had been trained by the great Uther the Lightbringer and by hundreds of other great teachers. He had killed the demon dreadlord Mal'Ganis himself. Why was he having so much trouble with this mindless beast?

Arthas roared in anger as he pushed with his might. Slowly, he managed to give himself breathing room as he pushed against the might of the bear. With as much strength as he could muster, Arthas pushed the mighty bear off of his body and onto the ground next to him.

Ignoring the pain in his destroyed ankle, Arthas quickly leapt to his feet and begun to limp as far as he could go. He needed distance from the beast, but his ankle refused to cooperate with him. It slowed him down and the bear caught up with him quickly. The bear's jaw opened wide and slammed shut on his sides. But his armor was thick and tough. It did not break under the mighty jaws of the bear. But this did not deter the bear from dragging Arthas around and tossing him into the nearby rock wall.

Arthas grunted as his back slammed into the wall. He slid down the wall and onto the cold ground. Blinking away the dizziness, his eyes met the bloodshot eyes of the bear, which grinned madly at its fallen prey. Arthas stared back in anger.

Slowly, the sun disappeared behind the mountains as Northrend paused in anticipation.

The bear roared and charged forward, jaws open in anticipation for its food.

Arthas' hand touched something familiar. The hilt of a sword, it felt like.

The bear neared as it continued its mad dash.

Arthas gripped the hilt and swung, roaring in anger.

Frostmourne cleaved into the bears gaping maw, separating the top of the bears skull from the bottom.

The upper jaw and everything above it fell into the air, dripping blood.

The rest of the body and the lower jaw slammed into the rock wall, its momentum still carrying it forward. The body missed Arthas by inches.

Gasping for breath, Arthas slumped to the ground. Holding Frostmourne in his hand, his vision began to blur. From blood loss not doubt.

Arthas slowly began to slide onto the dead body of the bear lying next to him. As his vision began to fade, he heard a familiar voice. Harsh yet not mocking.

_You just could not let me go, could you?_

************************************************************************************

So I kind of disappeared on you guys, didn't I? Sorry about that.

I've decided to enter this story in the Blizzard Writing Contest thingy. But as it is, it's not finished so I've decided to put off Mass Effect until this is finished. Won't be long, I'll be working all week. And hopefully I won't miss the deadline, which is April 12.

Again, really sorry I disappeared, but life goes on regardless.

Enjoy.

Oh, and I'm aware of the Joker reference.

************************************************************************************


	5. Day 4

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Day Four≶_

Arthas woke to the bitter cold that was now all too familiar in Northrend. The sun was far past its zenith and was beating down on him, attempting to blind his eyes and burn his skin. Could he no longer find comfort in the light of day?

The dead bear was decaying slowly, its wounded head now frozen solid. Arthas slowly lifted his head from the fur, which had long since lost its warmth. Blinking away the dreariness, the first thing he noticed was the throbbing in his ankle. Quickly glancing, he was shocked to find that his ankle was not broken. It looked like it was never broken.

_Like my handy work?_ The voice came back.

"How did you…?" Arthas asked.

_Through Frostmourne, my powers are yours,_ the voice replied. Arthas shook his head in amazement. Then he paused.

_You have many questions, don't you?_ The voice asked.

"Of course I do," Arthas growled.

_Your race is so inquisitive, _the voice sighed in exasperation.

"Who are you?" Arthas asked harshly.

_You know the answer to that,_ the voice said. Arthas sighed and stood up, gripping the sword tightly. He began to walk. In no particular direction, he just stretched out his newly healed leg.

"You're the Lich King," Arthas said. "Leader of the Undead Scourge."

_That I am. Next question,_ the Lich King told him.

"Why did you attack Azeroth?" Arthas asked.

_I am the emissary for the Burning Legion,_ the Lich King answered. _I was to pave the way for the Burning Legion to invade and destroy this planet. I was using the undead plague to accomplish this goal. But that is not the question you wish to ask._

"What makes you say that?" Arthas dared to ask.

_You are not the slightest bit interested in the Burning Legion or the Undead Plague,_ the Lich King answered. Arthas stopped in his tracks.

"I want to know how to destroy them," Arthas told the Lich King.

_No you don't_, the Lich King. _You don't care at all about the Burning Legion or the Undead Scourge. You don't care about any of that._

"You're right. I care about one thing," Arthas said. "Saving my people."

_Why do humans continually lie to themselves?_ The Lich King asked.

"Are you saying I'm lying?" Arthas asked angrily.

_Yes, I am,_ the Lich King stated.

"Why might that be?" Arthas asked.

_Because you don't care about your people anymore,_ the Lich King stated. _You care about only one thing. Power._ Arthas stared at the cold ground as the Lich King and Northrend waited patiently for his answer.

"What makes you say that?" Arthas whispered.

_All beings strive for power,_ the Lich King stated. _The power to change whatever they want to. Everyone wants to change something about life. They all envy power and they all want power. As did I. You want power as well. You_ yearn_ for it._

"You don't even know me," Arthas scowled.

_Oh, but I do,_ the Lich King told him. _I can see into your mind. I can see every thought that passes through that head of yours. Through Frostmourne, I know you better than you know yourself. So when I say that you want power more than anything else, you'll know that I am right._

"I think you don't know what you're talking about," Arthas shot at the voice.

_Don't I?_ The Lich King asked. He paused, seemingly in thought. _I know why you won't talk about Stratholme._

"Shut up!" Arthas exclaimed before he could stop himself.

_Do you see how fast you reacted when I touched the subject?_ The Lich King asked. _I know exactly why you don't want to talk about it. I could tell you, but I won't. I wish to hear you say it. And you will, before the end._

"So now you're a seer? A prophet?" Arthas asked angrily.

_No, that would be Medivh's job,_ The Lich King said. _But I can tell you that it will happen. I'll make sure of it._

Arthas scowled and continued to walk on.

_So tell me, good prince,_ The Lich King said in a playful tone. _Why did you seek me out? It was my understanding that our contract was terminated when you tossed me out._

"If you claim to know me so well, why don't you tell me?" Arthas said, smiling triumphantly.

_Humor me._

That was all the Lich King said before he stayed silent. Arthas' smile faded just as quickly as the voice did. He continued to walk on the cold and barren wasteland that was Northrend. The silence would have been maddening, but Arthas did not seem to mind it. With Frostmourne at his side, he was content to just walk in silence. Soon, however, Arthas felt…pulled to say something.

"Human beings desire the company of others," Arthas began. "It is our nature. We cannot be alone for too long. It drives us mad. So, we openly look for other who will share our company. We search for another human to bring us back to the world."

_Do you consider yourself human?_ The Lich King asked simply.

Arthas stopped dead in his tracks.

"What did you ask?" Arthas forced the words out slowly.

_I asked you if you still consider yourself human,_ The Lich King repeated. _But that's not what you want to ask me._

"Why do you ask?" Arthas forced even harder these words.

_Humans seek out the company of other humans,_ The Lich King explained slowly, each word a nail in Arthas' chest. _Demons seek out the company of other demons. A human does not seek out the company of a demon unless he does not consider himself to be human. So, good prince, do you consider yourself human?_

Arthas didn't answer.

_You don't know, do you?_ The Lich King surmised.

Arthas didn't answer.

_Shall we find the answer?_ The Lich King asked.

"No," Arthas said angrily. "We're done talking."

_Well, that's just fine,_ The Lich King said. _You don't have to talk to me. I have other things to attend to, anyways. But I know just the person you will talk to. I think you know him very well._

The snow in front of Arthas began to churn. Like a whirlpool, it spun in a tight circle, gathering more and more snow as it did. Then slowly, the snow began to rise in front of Arthas' eyes and slowly began to take on the shape of…someone.

As the form began to condense, Arthas' eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He nearly lost his grip on Frostmourne.

_Have fun._

And with that, the Lich King left, leaving Arthas with the figure before his eyes.

The person made from the snow opened his eyes, revealing blue eyes.

The same blue eyes as Arthas'. For they were Arthas' eyes.

As the day began to close, Arthas the paladin, with his blond hair and golden armor, stared into the eyes of Arthas the death knight, with his white hair and grey armor.

"Hello there," the Death Knight spoke with the same voice as Arthas.

The Paladin was too shocked for words.

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God, this is taking longer than I want it to. I want to work on Mass Effect more, but I want to finish this!

ARGH!!!!!

New blog BTW, check it out.

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	6. Day 5

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Day Five≶_

The sun rose upon the continent of Northrend, slowly warming the countryside and beginning to melt any snow and ice that may have formed during the night. However, it did not show for long as the sun rarely showed its face in Northrend, leaving it to its bitter cold. At this point in time, the sun only rose for a little over ten hours before setting once more to warm other places of Azeroth that were more worthy of its light. This didn't bother Northrend or its inhabitants, though there were few. The heat from the sun was too hot for Northrend's tastes, anyways. The country preferred the dark slumber the night brought.

But as the sun rose, there were only two beings on Northrend that did not sleep. They were two foreign beings that had become quite accustomed to the cold of Northrend. The odd thing was, they were both the same person. They were just different aspects of that person.

Arthas the Paladin had not slept the entire night and had not eaten since the morning he went in search of the blade that he now clutched in his hand. But he knew it was not the hunger that would slowly kill him, for he knew a human body could survive without food for a whole month. It was the dehydration that was killing him, for the human body could only survive without water for a little more than three days. And he had not had anything to drink in nearly a whole week.

So, in his rational mind, this…creature could not be walking towards him. This creature that bore his face in so many ways. This creature that called himself a Death Knight. He was simply hallucinating.

Arthas the Death Knight was dragging the dead body of the bear that Arthas the Paladin had killed the day before. Or maybe it was two days before. Arthas wasn't sure anymore if he had killed Mal'Ganis yesterday or a month ago. His sense of time was off, just as his sight was slowly failing him. Every now and then, his eyesight would become filled with black…snow, blinding him momentarily. That was all he could call it. Black snow filling his vision.

The Death Knight sat down next to the Paladin, placing the dead bear in front of him. They were situated under the shadow of a small wall of ice, taking shelter from the western winds. And now, the Death Knight prepared to eat.

Glancing at the dead bear for a moment, he looked over at the Paladin and held out his dark, gauntleted hand, gesturing to the blade in the Paladin's hand. Arthas glanced at himself warily, not knowing if he should trust this mirage.

"If I wanted to kill a whelp like you, I'd have done it already," the Death Knight growled impatiently. Arthas scowled at…himself and slowly handed the sword over, hilt first. The Death Knight grabbed it and admired it for a moment. He then went to cutting off the leg of the beast and cutting the skin and fur off of it. Examining it for a moment, he took a nibble of the raw leg before handing the blade back to the Paladin. The Paladin merely took it and stared as the Death Knight gorged himself. Arthas' stomach grumbled as he watched the leg slowly be devoured. Hearing the grumbling, the Death Knight offered the leg to the Paladin, who merely stared.

"This isn't real," the Paladin said slowly to himself. "I'm just delirious from lack of water and food. You can't be real. You are just some hallucination that I am experiencing. Maybe the Lich King is playing with my mind. I don't know. But what I do know is that that bear leg cannot be real. Just as you are not real."

Arthas (the Death Knight) stared at himself, chewing on the meat slowly and thoughtfully. Licking his lips, he placed the leg on top of the bear corpse. He looked at the Paladin again. Then punched him in the jaw.

The moment the fist collided with his jaw, Arthas' vision was again filled with the black snow. He could not feel a thing as his cheek fell to the snow below. He instantly stumbled to his feet, gripping the handle of Frostmourne tightly. But as he got up, dizziness knocked him straight back down to the snow where he lay for a moment longer.

The black snow began to fade from his vision, allowing him to stare up at the gray sky for the first time. He blinked multiple times, allowing his breath to return to his body. Slowly, he got up to a sitting position. He looked quickly towards the Death Knight, who was calmly eating another piece of the bear leg.

"Real enough for you?" The Death Knight asked mockingly. The Paladin scowled before getting to his feet. When he stood, his legs nearly gave out, but he was strong. He slowly made his way to the corpse of the bear and sat back down next to…himself.

"That should not have happened," The Paladin muttered to himself.

"But it did," The Death Knight grumbled.

"You aren't real," The Paladin tried to reassure himself.

"You still believe that?" The Death Knight asked.

"You are just a figment of my hallucination," The Paladin rationalized. "I haven't eaten or had anything to drink. This is my body reacting to not having anything to eat or drink. So you cannot be real. And I can't touch that bear because it's not there."

"So by your logic, since I dragged this bear here, it too cannot be real. So when I punched you that meant that you cannot be real. Is that right?" The Death Knight shook his head. "You are so stupid, princey."

"What do you mean?" The Paladin asked angrily.

"Do you really think it matters what is really and what is not?" The Death Knight told him. "Do you think it still matters that I may be a figment of your twisted and broken mind? No, it no longer matters. All that matters is what you want to do next. All that matters is what you wish to do with your time here on this barren wasteland called Azeroth. So tell me, princey, what do you want to do next?"

Arthas (the Paladin) was stock still as he listened to his words. It was true. Arthas did not have a plan of any kind. He was so bent on surviving in this wasteland that he did not give any thoughts to the days ahead. What would he do next, if he got off this barren continent alive?

"I need to return to my kingdom," Arthas proclaimed. "I must defend it from the Burning Legion." It felt good to hear the words leave his lips. He felt…strong again.

"Idiot," The Death Knight combed his white hair with his hand, pulling them away from his face. "Your kingdom is lost."

"It is not lost!" Arthas shouted. "I am still Crown Prince of Lordaeron and a Knight of the Silver Hand! As long as I have a single breath in my body, Lordaeron will not fall!"

The Death Knight chuckled.

"That's all well and good, princey," The Death Knight told him, smiling and amused. "But how will you do it?"

Arthas didn't answer. He only scowled at…himself.

"If it were me," The Death Knight said. "I would know that I don't have the power or the strength to defend Lordaeron from the Undead or the Burning Legion. Lordaeron is too weak; the very men they cut down blow its armies away into the wind. No living men can defeat the Scourge of the Undead; there are too many. The dead outnumber the living a thousand to one. The reason? They are being led by the weak and frail King Terenas."

"You will not say a word about my father!" Arthas shouted.

"He is my father, too. So I will say what I wish about him," The Death Knight said. "But you know as well as I do that Terenas is growing weaker as his kingdom dies around him. There is no hope for Lordaeron anymore. If you really wish to save Lordaeron, you must claim it for the Scourge."

"And damn my kingdom to oblivion? Is that how I will say it?!" Arthas exclaimed.

"The Scourge will not stop until Lordaeron is razed to the ground," The Death Knight explained. "The only way to save the kingdom is to give it the Scourge."

"The Scourge would kill everyone anyway!" Arthas exclaimed.

"Exactly," The Death Knight said. "The longer your people fight on, the longer they delay their inevitable doom."

"There is still hope for my people!" Arthas the Paladin exclaimed, the black snow beginning to fill his vision."

"Was there still hope for Stratholme when you arrived?" Arthas the Death Knight asked.

"There was no hope for them!" Arthas the Paladin shouted as loud as he could, his head throbbing.

"Then how the two any different from each other?" Arthas the Death Knight asked. "No, there was no hope for Stratholme and there is no hope for Lordaeron. The only thing you can do now is to give your people a quick and painless death. Just as you did to the people of Stratholme. You knew that the grains had become infected with the Plague of Undeath. And you knew that the grains had already been distributed to the people. You knew that there was no hope for that city, so you killed every last one of them. Men, women and children, it made no difference. This is the exact same situation! Lordaeron has become infected and the only way to save it is to cut out the weak and the living!"

"NO!" Arthas the Paladin screamed as the black snow engulfed his vision and his head hit the ground with a thud. In the depths of sleep, he could be far away from this torment.

He could be far away from himself.

He thought he felt the winds of Northrend begin to pick up again, as if its heart had begun to race faster and faster in anticipation.

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Almost there almost there almost there. Two or three more chapters and I will be done! Then I can focus on more important things like sleep!

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	7. Day 6

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Day Six≶_

The winds of Northrend slowly began to pick up, slowly filling the wasteland with its bitter cold. Northrend's cold heart was beginning to race as it watched with growing anticipation and excitement the duel between the two Arthas'. Mighty Northrend itself did not know whether the Death Knight was real or not, but it knew that the things in this world could not be made from nothing. Snow became water; water became ice; ice became snow. It surmised that the Death Knight was created by that bane on its crown, the Lich King, from something within Arthas himself. Something that Arthas did not know or yet realize was there.

Northrend's thoughts ceased for the moment; Arthas was waking up now.

Weakly, Arthas painfully opened his eyes to the dull light of day. The wind was blowing softly but cruelly against his face. He tried to get up, but his muscles, deprived of water and nutrition, forced him back down to the ice. He groaned silently. It was then that he realized that he was being watched.

He lifted his head up to see Arthas the Death Knight staring back at him with his cruel, blue eyes. The Death Knight was cold. Arthas couldn't tell if the Death Knight felt cold (he was not him, after all), but when he looked upon…himself, he saw that everything about was the epitome of cold. From his pale white features to his pure white hair and to his frost ridden armor. Only his eyes that looked towards the future blazed with a blue fire that looked all too familiar on the cursed sword.

Feeling strength return to him, Arthas the Paladin lifted himself up so he could sit. The black snow returned to his vision, blinding him momentarily and his head felt like someone was nailing a blade into it, but he forced himself forward. He rubbed his temples, dulling the pain only for a moment.

When the black snow left and the pain subsided he looked up at…himself.

"What happened to the bear?" Arthas asked, looking for the corpse.

"Ate it," The Death Knight responded.

"How did it taste?" Arthas asked, unconsciously licking his lips.

"Fine," The Death Knight responded. "A bit cold."

"How long was I out?" Arthas asked, rubbing his head.

"About a day," The Death Knight told him.

Arthas didn't respond. He only gazed at Frostmourne, which was still being held in his hand.

"You could have taken it," Arthas spoke.

"I'm sorry?" The Death Knight asked.

"The sword," Arthas explained. "You could have taken it while I was out. You could have killed me."

"Why would I kill myself?" The Death Knight asked.

"You aren't me," Arthas said coldly.

"Yet," The Death Knight responded. "Still, I could have taken the sword while you slept. I could have killed you, gone back to Lordaeron as you and claimed the land for the Scourge. But I didn't, did I?"

"No," Arthas said. "Why not?"

"Because the only reason a person would want to kill them is because they want to change something," The Death Knight told him. "And right now, you don't want to change anything about yourself. Yet."

"What do you know about me?" Arthas asked. "Nothing! You are not me! You know nothing of what I want!"

"I know that you still wish things were different," The Death Knight told him. "I know that you wish things had turned out differently. Between you and Jaina, between you and Uther, Stratholme, Muradin. You wish all of these things were different. That's why I wouldn't kill you. You wish for these things but you lack the courage to want to change them. That's why I won't kill myself. Because I wish for these things, but I don't want these things."

Arthas wanted to argue against the Death Knight. He wanted to tell the Death Knight that it wasn't true, but the words refused to come out of his mouth. His mouth urged himself to say something, but he knew nothing he said would change anything.

The black snow began to fill his vision and the pain in his head began to throb.

"You sure are an interesting thing, aren't you princey?" The Death Knight said.

"How so?" Arthas asked, barely above a whisper. His head began to swim.

"You are so proud and mighty," The Death Knight replied. "A true son of Lordaeron, but when the time comes, you can be so cowardly."

Arthas began to blink rapidly, pushing away the dizziness.

"You are so blinded by your duty that you cannot see the simple truth of the matter," The Death Knight continued. "You cannot yet see what you have become. When you come close to realizing it, you hide behind your responsibility, cowering away from it. That's why you could never be a strong king."

"And you could?" Arthas groaned, collapsing on his hands and knees.

"I already am, good prince," The Death Knight responded, ignoring himself. "I am not afraid to admit what I did in the name of Lordaeron. You cannot even bring yourself to talk about Stratholme. What are you so afraid of? Do you regret your decision? A good king must never regret anything that he has done. But you. You continually hide behind your morals and duty, and are so blinded by them that you cannot see that you have left them far behind. The minute you set off on your path of vengeance against Mal'Ganis, you abandoned your kingdom's principles and forged your own. But when faced with the bitter cold of Northrend and left to your own thoughts, you abandoned the principles you created and attempted to crawl back to your kingdom's."

"And what's wrong with that?" Arthas asked wearily, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. And against he words he knew were true.

"It's cowardly and pitiful," The Death Knight replied. "A king must be strong. He must never look back. He must do what is not only in his country's best interest but his own. You knew what had to be done at Stratholme. And you knew that you had to kill every person in that city. Commendable. You knew that the only way to defeat the dreadlord Mal'Ganis was to seize the power and might of Frostmourne, damning your soul to the Lich King forever. Praiseworthy actions."

Arthas heaved on whatever was left in his stomach onto the ice. There wasn't much.

The eyes of Frostmourne began to glow and the winds of Northrend blew a little stronger.

"Now the only you need to do is return home," The Death Knight continued. "But you can't now. You've changed too much. And Lordaeron is sickening to your eyes. It's pathetic, weak. And now you have the strength to fix it. To change it to your image and truly bring it to greatness. But you won't because you are still trying to cling to those pathetic morals that failed you. You would never raise a hand against your kingdom, though you didn't seem to have any problems razing Stratholme to the ground. You can almost taste the hypocrisy. You, good prince, are continually denying what you know already to be true. There is no going back to the way things were. Not anymore."

Tears came unbidden to Arthas' eyes. It was true. His entire being was now filled with hypocrisy and deceit. He was such a fool. Why didn't he see it before? Why couldn't he see it before? Was he still hoping that he still had some humanity left when he knew there was none? Was he always hoping to return to the way things were? To the joys and cares of the past? His tears fell to the ground, frozen before they hit the ground. Was it too late for him?

No.

It couldn't be too late. He knew that there is always hope for men, even the most decrepit ones. And he could prove it too.

He got up to his feet and ran through the snow and ice, against the pain that emanated throughout his entire body. Against the strengthening applause of Northrend that ripped through his body, he continued to run. He ran in search of his men, who he hoped were still alive.

Arthas watched the Paladin run towards who knows where. Sighing, he got up and followed him, walking almost lazily but with purpose.

"Damn idiot," Arthas mumbled as he trudged through the snow. "Making me chase him through this place."

The Paladin ran across the snowy desert and the Death Knight followed.

The Paladin was searching for proof that he was not completely lost.

The Death Knight was just following his own footsteps.

Northrend watched all of this, cheering all the while. Who the continent was cheering for didn't matter. Just that it was cheering.

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For those who read The Gunslinger by Stephen King will see the reference. Just seemed to fit.

Two more chapters and I'll be done. I'll finish it this weekend.

I hope.

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	8. Day 7

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Day Seven≶_

The wind howled through the air as Arthas tramped through the raising snow. As if in excitement, Northrend unleashed a barrage of snow and chill. The faint outline of the sun could be seen but at this time, there was no need to see it. It was even more dangerous as the more Arthas moved the more the black snow filled his vision, joining in with the white snow that fell to the ground. The pain in his body ached, but still Arthas ran on with Frostmourne blazing in his hand, lighting the way.

Hunger and thirst were gnawing at his body, but still Arthas forced himself to move. He had to prove to everyone…something. What was he trying to do? He couldn't remember, his mind a jumbled mess due to his hunger and thirst. But he knew that it was important. It was important enough to risk life and death in the wasteland.

Something grabbed his attention and he stopped in his tracks, the wind and snow churning around him. He was sure there was something there. He just had to wait.

A voice? Was it a voice on the winds? Arthas stopped, straining to listen over the din of the snow and the winds.

"…arthas…," he was sure he heard. It was true; someone was calling for him. But who?

"…Arthas…," the voice called again. Was it human? Or was it the Death Knight? Or maybe it was the Lich King, come to torment him again.

His stomach grumbled in anticipation.

"…Arthas!" the voice was louder this time and closer. No, it was definitely human. Was it one of his brothers in arms? Or that cursed Death Knight who claimed was him?

His mouth began to water.

"Prince Arthas!" the voice shouted over the din and Arthas recognized the accent as that of the Lordaeron commoners. One of his men!

His stomach grumbled louder and Arthas licked his lips, smiling.

"Prince Arthas! Are you alright, milord?" the man shouted. Arthas could see his dark shadow form through the snow. It was a footman, wading through the snow with an arm covering his face.

Unconsciously, Arthas grinned, the sides of his mouth barely touching his cheeks. His eyes were getting wider and wider in anticipation.

His stomach was like the roar of a lion.

"Oh, thank heavens I found you, milord!" the footman shouted hopefully. "I've been walking for days in this accursed place! I dunno how long. It seemed like an eternity since I've seen anybody! I thought I would go mad in this place until I found you! It's a miracle that you survived this long, milord! A true miracle!"

Arthas raised Frostmourne up high, ready to swing, his eyes a mirror of glee and his grin full of happiness. Frostmourne glowed brighter than it ever had before, happy that it could taste blood soon.

"Milord, what should we do?" the footman shouted desperately as he trudged closer to his lord and prince. "I haven't seen anyone else in this forsaken place since the assault against the Undead. I was separated from my unit during the attack. I've been wandering these lands for day! You wouldn't happen to have food or water on you, do you milord? I'm so hungry. So hungry. I haven't eaten for days and I need water! If you don't mind me saying, milord, we should head back to the camp and head back to Lordaeron! We've done what we've come here to do! Let's go home!"

Arthas swung the bloodthirsty sword through the snow at the shape. Frostmourne cut through the snow like paper. As it cut through the snow, it opened a hole in the white veil, giving Arthas a clear look at the hapless fool.

He had long brown hair tied in a ponytail that carried itself in the air, almost like it was waving hello to the prince. His blue eyes were soft and caring, the kind that would never do harm to innocent people. He probably didn't participate in Stratholme at all, probably pretending to be too sick to carry out those orders. But he still followed his lord to Northrend. He was still loyal to Lordaeron.

How pathetic.

Now, as Arthas looked at the footman, the sword cut through the footman's neck. As the sword exited the other side, the footman's head rolled of its neck, falling to the ground and spilling the precious blood on the ground. The neck shot a small stream of the dark red water of life into the air before it crumpled onto the ground. Arthas watched all of this, staring with wide eyes.

He stared at the body a moment longer. Watched as the blood flowed out of the body for just a moment longer. Then he lunged at the body with a snarl. Dropping Frostmourne to the ground, he leaned forward to the bleeding neck and began to drink the blood flowing out. The cool nectar flowed down his throat like honey, nourishing his dry lips and mouth. For that brief moment, thirst subsided. But his hunger remained.

Arthas the Death Knight thought he heard Frostmourne's cry through the snow. He paused for a moment, listening to the wind. As if by instinct, he was aware of one fact. Someone had just been killed.

He continued to walk, follow his instinctive knowledge of where his better half was. As he walked, he gazed at the snow around him and felt the winds that blew through his white hair. At that moment, he also realized another fact. Northrend was really quite beautiful.

Arthas nearly tripped as his foot hit something hard. Catching his balance, he looked down at the ground. He was barely surprised when he saw a man's head staring back at him, an imprint of surprise etched on his face. The blood had once oozed from the neck had since dried up, the arteries frozen shut by the bitter cold.

Arthas heard a squishing sound ahead of him and looked up. He saw a dark shape ahead of him through the snowy veil. It was hunched over something and…it sounded like it was eating something. Arthas stepped forward, hardly noticing that he had stepped on the footman's head, crushing it beneath his boot in an explosion of…

Arthas slowly walked, leaving bloody footprints in his wake. As he neared the shape, he began to recognize the shape in front of him, though he instinctively already knew what it was. He stopped just short of the shape that was huddled over…a body, he thought.

The creature stopped whatever it was doing, as if knowing immediately that something was behind it. And in that moment, Northrend held its breath. The snow dissipated, clearing the visions of both the creature and Arthas. The creature lifted its head and turned slowly. Ever so slowly. It turned to look behind at the Death Knight. When he saw its face, Arthas barely blinked.

The Paladin looked back, teeth bared and blood covering his mouth. He breathed heavily as he stared into the eyes of the Death Knight. They were his eyes and he recognized them. Slowly, with his hunger and thirst satiated, his mind began to return to him. Slowly, he found himself again.

Arthas the Death Knight glanced over at what the Paladin was eating. His eyes lingered only for a moment on the ruined body before looking back at the Paladin.

"How hungry were you?" Arthas asked himself.

The Paladin looked over at the body. His face slowly contorted into horror.

"What have I done?" The Paladin whispered in shock.

"It's understandable," Arthas said. "You haven't eaten in seven days…"

"…I wanted to prove there was still hope…" The Paladin whispered, tears beginning to drip down his eyes.

"…and when someone is brought to the edge, they will always resort to their basic instincts…

"…that I could be saved…"

"…so when you went out to prove that you were still human…"

"…will I forever be a monster?..."

"…you came across this poor man and saw only food…"

"…is there no hope for me?..."

"…ironic isn't it?"

The Paladin wept for himself. The Death Knight looked on.

The Paladin screamed to the heavens. The Death Knight looked on.

The Paladin grabbed Frostmourne, still screaming. The Death Knight looked on.

The Paladin stood up quickly, placing the blade against his chest, still screaming. The Death Knight looked on.

The Paladin fell forward upon his sword. The Death Knight looked on.

The blade cut into his chest and into his heart. The Paladin gasped as he fell forward. His strength left him and he let go of the sword. The Paladin fell to the side and rolled onto his back. The blade stuck into the Paladin's chest, the skull's eyes blazing with power as it fed on the Paladin's life. It stood there as a monument of the fallen Paladin.

As the Paladin gazed up to the sky, his vision darkened. In sadness and in grief, the darkness swallowed him and he was no more.

Arthas gazed at his dead body a moment longer, no emotion on his face. He thought back to their discussion as to why people took their own lives. That these poor people wanted to change their lives. He realized that he forgot to mention that it was pointless to change the world.

He sighed and walked forward. Arthas reached forward and gripped the handle of Frostmourne. With all his might, he pulled the sword out of himself.

Arthas opened his eyes and he was on the ground, staring at the sky. He quickly got up off the ground, pushing his white hair out of his eyes and staring around. He looked at the terrain of quiet Northrend. When he finished a circle, he gazed at Frostmourne, held tightly in his hands. He lifted it up, admiring its beauty and swung it down, listening to its song as it cut through the air. Looking at it once more, he grinned.

"Such a beautiful blade!" Arthas the Death Knight exclaimed. "I must show it to my father!"

_I agree,_ the voice of the Lich King said.

Throwing his head back, he roared with laughter, throwing his cackling up into the heavens. As it watched this, Northrend began to cheer, howling with glee and amazement. The wind picked up and began to blow through the lands, awakening every creature in the land. It began to hold its own standing ovation as the snow began to rage around the newly born Death Knight.

Such a magnificent show! Such a terrific performance! Bravo! Encore! Northrend continued its mighty and demonic howl as Arthas left its shores for home.

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It is done. I'm done. I'll post an epilogue of sorts later, but for now, this story is done.

Personally, I don't like it that much, particularly because it isn't that deep. But I really love the last two chapters. A descent to madness is always fun. And you all got to see my twisted and dark mind.

So far, I'm about 400 words over the required amount for the Blizzard Writing Contest so I need to cut out some crap. But I'll leave these unedited for you all.

Cheers.

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	9. Epilogue

Disclaimer: I don't own the WarCraft universe or Blizzard.

≶_The Call of the Lich King: Seven Days of Torment≶_

≶_Epilogue≶_

Icy Northrend was saddened to see the mighty Arthas leave its shores. The country had come to love the human for he had brought a strange tale to its frozen lands. Northrend had set up the stage and saw one of the most terrifyingly beautiful tales ever performed in the history of Azeroth: the tale of the noble hero's fall from grace. Sure, Northrend had heard of many tales from its sister shores of Lordaeron and Kalimdor, but they all felt so drab and dull when told by something else. Most of the time, they were all stories of the hero's rise or the hero defeating the villain and saving the land from treachery. Northrend always thought they were such boring tales with the ending so predictable.

But this human, this Arthas…he was something completely different.

Never before had a being of this world fallen so far and so quickly to the forces of corruption. One being did before but now that human was trying to undo what he did in the form of a pitiful raven. How tedious. But Northrend knew that Arthas would never regret his actions. He had power now and he would never relinquish it.

Still, Northrend was saddened to see its favorite human leave its shores. But it knew that Arthas would return. You never left Northrend. Not completely. A part of you always stayed behind. Forever.

But, Northrend felt a strange hum of…excitement it thought it felt like. Now Arthas would take his power and return home to Lordaeron. Northrend knew its sister country had always wished for a change of some sort, something Northrend never really understood. Lordaeron was always in the midst of some chaos, was it not? The Horde and the Alliance were always battling each other on its battlegrounds. And now a third party, the so-called Scourge, had come to join the fray. What more could a country want?

Northrend could not understand any of it. Maybe they were so different from one another that they could not possible understand each other. Northrend barely conversed with Kalimdor anymore, now that it had fallen asleep. Fallen asleep from what? Boredom? Northrend did not understand its two neighbors. Still, Northrend envied Lordaeron. Now Arthas was going there and now tremendous things were going to happen there. Northrend ached to see these things with all its cold, frozen body.

But why not?

Northrend could take a peek, could it not?

Just a peek.

So, a frozen wind arose from the peak of tainted Icecrown and blew south. And on those winds Northrend was carried. These winds belonged to Northrend and allowed it to see. It could see the world because the frozen winds that came from its land would spread out across Azeroth.

Across the winds, Northrend was carried until finally, the wind crew warmer. Heat filled the wind and Northrend felt…odd. It felt so alien to it that Northrend almost felt like he had stepped onto Outland, that strange cousin of Azeroth's. But Northrend knew that the winds had carried him to Lordaeron. Now, all it had to do was find Arthas.

It was not hard. Arthas shown like a beacon to the world's eyes. He was destined for great things and because of it, he shown with the brilliance of a thousand suns. Quickly, the winds blew Northrend towards the light and peculiar noises filled its ears.

Bells. The sound of bells ringing throughout the courtyard of stone. The sound of many humans cheering not from pain or despair, but from joy and happiness conjoined with the bells. The sound of falling petals was so soft that Northrend barely heard it at all. All this noise was deafening to its ears, which were only used to the cold, silent wastelands of the icy plains. Sure, there would be the distant cry of a bear or a seal, but nothing else. Nothing this loud had ever been heard by Northrend before.

Then it saw him. On the winds of Northrend, Arthas was spotted striding proudly down the stone road, the petals of flowers floating down towards the ground. Northrend was once again filled with awe and wonder. Such pride was emanating from Arthas that Northrend could almost taste it. Such power. Northrend was glad to see that Arthas had not become lazy.

The strong survived while the weak died.

The humans cheering for him? They were weak. They only cheered him because they were too pathetic to fend for themselves. Best let the strong man fight for them. They almost made Northrend retch. Arthas almost look like he would as well, Northrend thought. As Arthas gazed upwards at the people and the flowers, Northrend was filled with a sense of loathing that radiated from his being.

It was good. Arthas was not stupid. He knew very well that they were weak.

Arthas pushed away the doors to the castle as easily as he had killed that footman. Northrend followed behind him, being pulled along by the winds. He entered a circular hall with a mighty throne near the center. On this mighty throne sat a strange withered…creature. It was not a man, as Northrend knew. It was by far the weakest, most pathetic creature Northrend had ever laid eyes upon. It could barely stand under the weight of its own crown.

This must be the weak King Terenas that Arthas spoke of not so long ago. Arthas' father.

Arthas drew his sword and knelt to the ground, mighty Frostmourne held in his hands with the blade sticking into the ground. His hood covered his face in shadow and darkness.

"Ah, my son!" Terenas cried as he got up wearily from the throne, nearly falling as he held himself up. Pitiful creature. Nothing that weak was meant to survive.

Terenas almost began to praise his son on a safe return. To praise his mighty son's strength and faith, both of which he would say brought him back home safely. He almost began to show the full extent of his love.

But love was a weakness.

And weaknesses could not be tolerated.

"You no longer need to sacrifice for your people," Arthas whispered softly. His voice began to rise in volume. "You no longer need to bear the weight of your crown. I've taken care of everything."

Arthas looked up and smiled.

Frostmourne also grinned manically with its blue light.

He got onto his feet.

He pulled back his hood, revealing his hair as white as the snow that had snatched the color away.

Holding the sword tightly in his hand, Arthas strode forward.

Arthas towered over the weak man who would be king.

He grabbed the man's shoulder and brought him down lower.

He raised his sword.

"What is this!?" Terenas cried, in his weak and pathetic voice. "What are you doing, my son?!"

And in the coldest, most death-ridden voice imaginable, Arthas answered his dear father's last question.

"Succeeding you," Arthas said. "Father…"

He added the last word as an afterthought.

Arthas plunged the sword forward. The tip of the blade first touched the old man's wrinkled neck than continued to push its way forward. Cutting through like a knife cutting snow, the sword spilled the old kings frail blood, spilling some of it onto the stone floor. The blade burst out of the back of the old king's neck, spilling the rest onto the throne of Lordaeron, staining it forever with the weakness that was human. The blood of a weak king. A lesser son of greater sires. Frostmourne didn't care. It all tasted the same for the demonic blade.

As the dead king's head lolled backwards, the blade was retracted back. As it slid out, other drops of the weak blood splashed onto the ancient crown of Lordaeron. The crown slipped from the old man's head and fell to the ground. Weakened by the weakness of others, the crown broke and rolled pathetically around on the floor, until it stopped.

Northrend admired the beauty. It admired the sheer magnificence of Arthas' act of betrayal. It was nothing personal. His father was merely weak and had to be replaced. Northrend was glad to see that Arthas had carried that lesson with him always. Like it knew, you never really left Northrend.

"This kingdom shall fall," Arthas said, smiling. "And from the ashes shall arise a new order that will shake the very foundations of the world."

Northrend cried out in joy. Brave words! Wonderful words! It would have wept had it not known that tears were weak. Now, Arthas would change this world forever. Now, Arthas would be strong.

Northrend heard Lordaeron's cry of sorrow and sadness and still did not understand. What's to be sad about? This is a joyous occasion! The mighty king will now lead the land to victory! Why was Lordaeron so sad?

So Northrend decided to leave. It had overstayed its welcome. And the cries of the country were deafening as it sounded along side those annoying, ringing bells.

Northrend left those behind, eagerly waiting for Arthas' return.

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Now, we're finally done.

Found out two weeks after the results were supposed to be posted, I found out that I didn't win. It was weird. No posting on the Blizzard homepage, no email, nothing. It makes sense that it would be on the contest page but I thought I would get a notification of some sorts.

I enjoyed most of this work, even though it did eat away a lot from important things. Like stress-free life.

No one really reads this story so whatever. If you've made it all the way here, congrats. If we ever meet in person, I'll high-five you. If you're a girl, I'll maybe give you my number. Maybe.

See ya.

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End file.
